Scandalous Scholastics
by velocisauruss
Summary: [M for mature content, explicit language and violence] [High School AU] [Teacher/Student] In which the master criminal inexplicably opts for a career in teaching high school English, and finds the torment with which he treats one young Regan Byron to be pencil-chewingly, paper-scrunchingly, stomach-churningly delicious.
1. Chapter 1

:1:

The mere sight of the day on the calendar would send any teen into an internalised panic. To varying degrees, of course, the mystical popular people would likely be filled with not so much dread but rather a sense of pompous entitlement because they managed to be born with that rare combination of genes that made people like them - while the rest of the population would be throwing themselves onto their beds and screaming into their pillows.

Clearly, Regan was one of the latter.

As she clutched the plush, white fabric to her face and tried her very best to purge the demons of anxiety and depression that had ensued following the fiasco that was last year - it occured to her that although this was her last year of school before her encroaching freedom, she was likely going to die. Exhaustion, stress, murder - it didn't matter. She was certain these were her last days - this would certainly be the last night for a long time she would be able get some sleep of a reasonable quality.

She stopped screaming, at least for the moment, and pulled the covers over herself with a huff. Regan nestled herself into the protective cocoon and fantasised about impossible scenarios where she wouldn't make a fool of herself as soon as she walked through the gates of the school.

* * *

The blaring beats of the radio seeped from the speakers of her alarm and into her dreams. She awoke with a start, eyes burning from sleep and jaw tightened from fright. She took a moment to gather herself, and eventually began flailing heavy handed over her side table till she found the button that'd shut that bloody thing up. She was sincerely contemplating returning to sleep but, from the resonating sounds of slamming doors and shouts from downstairs, she gleaned that perhaps it wasn't the best idea.

Begrudgingly, she left her bed. It was all a too familiar routine from that point on: throw her pajamas at the headboard of the bed in rage, pull her uniform from the back of the wardrobe, struggle to get the tie right and instead opting to just loosely attached it herself somehow, scramble to get whatever books she needed together, trot downstairs, avoid her screaming parents, force some food down and run out the door before she could get sucked into the domestic.

School was a few blocks away from her house, easily walkable. It was made much more pleasant, however, by complaining to herself about the physical strain of having to _drag_ herself all the way to somewhere she didn't want to be, and _drag_ herself all the way back again for another year. But started the arduous journey anyway - humming to herself. She was only a few paces down the lane when a car that'd been speeding up behind her with purpose came to a sudden stop just a few metres in front of her. She paid it no mind. It was probably just some hungover git that didn't like the party to stop on Saturday and kept going hard into Sunday - and was paying the consequences on this fine Monday morning. The black Mercedes remained stationary with a gentle hum as Regan lowered her head and sped up to walk past it.

"You're dragging yourself to Baker Street High then?" a loud, purposeful voice sounded from behind her. She paused mid-step and turned her head back. She never heard the window open, but the lack of tinted glass revealed a man. He was wearing large, dark shades, a bored expression on thin lips and slicked back hair.

"No." she said simply, and turned on her heel - rolling her eyes. It was like somehow, after an age, people seemed to forget the 'stranger danger' policy. She found it more relevant than ever at this age. Lascivious men were more of a risk to her now than they were while she was still eating her own snot and running around in light up shoes - what, with having tits and such. She shook her head at her own thoughts, people were very simple.

The car crawled along after her at walking speed. He'd lit a cigarette, and was letting it hand out the window next to her while he leaned his head back - the very image of nonchalance. "Then odd, you should be heading to fancy dress party at this hour of the morning as, what-" the nicotine stained hand reached up and lowered his shades, "a _school girl_." he droned. He had an disconcerting lilt, which sent a chill up Regan's spine.

She looked around subtly for anyone who'd think that a black car crawling after an uncomfortable looking school girl would be some cause for alarm. Unfortunately, she found nobody batted an eye. The terribly boring and average population of the lane had their faces buried in newspapers or in the glow of whatever thrilling memes were popping up on the internet - blissfully ignorant of her rapidly escalating fear. Regan paused at the crossing, pressing frantically at the button and praying to whatever deities would listen for that little walking man. The man stopped the car, turned off the ignition and stepped out. He fumbled to grasp both his cigarette and a shoulder bag as he stepped out of the car. The obnoxious little beep beep of the car as he locked it startled her. Regan decided she was done with waiting, prayed traffic would be kind to her and rapidly padded across the road.

A series of movers burst into her path, carrying all manner of couches, chairs, haberdashery and rubbish. She smiled painfully through half-heartedly polite iterations of 'sorry love' and 'we'll be out of the way in a minute'. The man with the cigarette, in the mean time, had waited patiently for traffic to slow and allow him to pass safely. He moseyed across the road, taking a long drag and smiling a wicked smile at her from around the fag. Regan tapped her foot impatiently as the furniture continued to pour out of the house. This was it. She wasn't even going to die from stress because this creep was surely going to kill her himself. All she could think to do with maintain her composure. If she didn't act scared, maybe it would quell her racing heart beat and quench the thrumming in her ears.

"Rude of you to run off like that." the man sighed, dropping his cigarette on the pavement and briskly stomping it out with perfectly polished shoes. She raised her eyebrows briefly - they looked expensive.

Regan looked her pursuer up and down. He was well dressed, she'd give him that. Perfectly tailored suit, impeccably groomed appearance - he was clearly on his way to somewhere important. Judging from the shoulder bag that was now comfortable draped across his body - she'd say something business like. "Nice suit." she said through gritted teeth.

He grinned, motioning dramatically at the suit, "Westwood." he boasted, before picking a small fibre of fluff off his suit.

There was a gap in the flow of furniture, and Regan quickly took the opportunity to slip through the stream and speed her way down the path. School was so close - if she could just make it before he caught up, she could get away. She looked back. He was pacing quickly down the street with as much purpose as she was, although she suspected it was of a distinctly different nature. She matched his speed in order to maintain the gap.

There it was. The tall, cast iron fence with the sinister spikes. The recently opened gates with the iron scroll in the rungs that read "Baker Street High School and Sixth Form". She ducked in the gates and assimilated herself quickly into a group of uniforms. The man stopped outside the gate, seemed to take in his surroundings as he stretched and rolled his head to meet her eye. He grinned, and strolled right through the gates. Regan began to back away. She spotted the gym teacher attempting to wrangle a football away from one of the younger students, and quickly made her way over to him.

"Uh, sir." she said quietly.

The teacher wrenched the football away from the young boy's death grip with a yank and set it on his hip. "Yes?"

She looked nervously back in the direction from which she had just come. He was nowhere to be seen. She sighed. "Nothing." she muttered, and made her way through the doors.

* * *

Regan dropped her things in her locker, finding at least some relief from the hustle and bustle of the halls in the confined space.

A hand on her hip made her practically jump out of her skin as she slammed the door of the locker and whipped around.

"Hey!.. hey!" the hand owner soothed.

Regan stood up straight and let her breath out - unaware that she'd been holding it. "Kate." she smiled. She was a welcome relief following the unreasonably tense goings on of the morning so far. The bubbly red head beamed back at her, before forcing her into a hug.

"I know you aren't the biggest fan of hugs, Regan, no need to remind me." she squeaked into her ear, obviously having noticed that Regan had gone completely and utterly stiff under the bear hug. "But I've missed you! I've hardly seen you all summer, since you'd rather hole yourself up in your room and write poetry or whatever than hang out with your best friend."

Regan regained her composure once the pressure was gone. "That's not true," she smirked, scooping her English books up off the floor and holding them to her chest, "We hung out, what... Once? Twice?"

"Once." Kate confirmed, "And that was only because I'd arrived unannounced and woken you up from your afternoon nap. Really, Regan, you need to get out more." Kate patted her cheek. "You're looking pale."

"Pale? I'll have you know, sickly is the new sexy." Regan winked. "English first, right, then free period?"

Kate nodded, and the pair were ushered along into the correct classroom by a sudden influx of chattering cheerful girls, brawling bawdy boys and at least a few people who looked like they were about to drop dead.

* * *

"...No." Regan breathed, stopping briefly in the doorway before being bumped inside by people for some god awful reason desperate to get _inside_ when all she wanted to do was be _outside_ at this point.

Languidly lounging in the chair where she expected to see Mrs. Robinson, was a disgusting, dark looking little creature with its legs propped up on the table. It stared back at her from under lowered eye lids as it bit into a bright green pear and smacked its lips.

"Regan?" Kate said quietly from her side.

Regan realised she'd been staring. In fact, not just her. The entire class was seated and quietly observing her staring at this unwelcome presence. How long, she couldn't say. In fact, she'd never felt anything quite like this in her life. It was a feeling of dread, petrification, uneasiness. She watched as the creature removed its legs from the table and stood up to gesture grandly at the blackboard.

It spoke. "As your classmate has no doubt been trying to somehow deduce, I am _not_ Mrs. Robinson."

Snickers.

Kate pushed her into the remaining seat at the front of the class and ushered a small meek character out of the one next to it. Regan took her eyes off _it_ long enough to read the white writing that it was pointing at.

JIM MORIARTY.

"Jim Moriarty." he said, rolling his tongue lazily as he articulated. "But you will address me, as Mr. Moriarty - as I'm sure you're all capable of figuring out."

Mr. Moriarty paused and looked back at Regan. "Except, maybe for you - what, with your staring at me like a brain dead goldfish."

Snickers. This time with more malice.

He glided over to her desk, expensive loafers slapping hollow sounds on the scuffed wooden floors. He sat back on the edge of his own desk, looking down at her. "Whats your name, girl?"

"... Regan." she said quietly.

"Regan!" he declared, leaving the desk, turning quickly on his heel and spreading his arms in a grand gesture - till his arms slapped back at his side and he turned back to face her. "And tell me, Regan. Why do you _absoluuutely_ ," he shook his head in time with his odd enunciations, "REEK, of cigarette smoke?"

She parted her lips in shock, trying to string together a retaliation that would have the proper impact, probably something along the lines of 'go fuck yourself you creepy git this is your bloody smoke'.

"Wait-" he held up a hand, leaving her mouth hanging open, as he chuckled to himself. "Of course being in your last year of school, you have some idea of the STRESS!" he shouted at the class, startling them. "That awaits you." he said softly. "However, _I_ , unlike some of your other teachers - am well aware of so, it's my _pleasure_ to inform you that I, can, be a lenient man." his eyes flicked to Regan's.

She could've sworn there was a glint in those dark orbs. Something that made her uncomfortable.

"And if you pay rapt attention in my class, you maaaaaaay find that some conventional assignments may not be assigned." Questioning murmurs spread from ear to ear in the class. Mr. Moriarty took his seat, and steepled his fingers together under his chin. "Now. I just can't wait to get to know you all. So you're all going to write your full names and three interesting facts about yourself down - and hand them up to me while I get my things in order."

Regan clenched her jaw and opened her notebook.

 _Regan Byron_

 _1._

She tapped the end of her pencil on the paper, before biting the end of it in thought. She looked up from her paper, to find Jim Moriarty's intense gaze boring into her. The smallest smatterings of a smile lifting the edges of his lips. She didn't react, merely opting to return to her musings.

"Regan." he uttered barely audibly.

She looked up.

"You will see me after class."

Regan barely nodded, and concentrated on trying to shut down her vital functions with her mind rather than her work or Jim bloody Moriarty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the warm reception already, guys. :) I always love getting reviews as much as I love letting my feels out into this story. Contemplating introducing the rest of the class - possibly making Kate into Molly considering her gushing. Sherlock, John, etc. could be teachers... But I'm not sure yet - let me know? :D**

* * *

:2:

Mr. Moriarty held her paper up appraisingly, nodding as he read each word – tilting his head as he silently articulated the words she'd written to himself as if he had all the time in the world. Regan, on the other hand, was drumming her fingers impatiently on the edge of his desk – watching the last few members of the class trickle out of the room through the corner of her eye.

"Regan Byron." he suddenly said, snapping her wandering eyes back to attention. He slapped the paper down on his desk, crossed one leg over the other and faced her with steepled fingers – as he often did. "Any relation to Lord Byron?" he smirked from behind the flexing digits.

"I wouldn't know," she mused, looking down at her own fingers. "But I _highly_ doubt it."

"Fair enough." he held her paper up again. "Regan Byron," he began again, "The first interesting fact about myself is my inexplicable ability to smell like cigarette smoke even though I completely abhor the habit. The second fact is a strange premonition I must've had in a dream in which I found myself wagging all my English classes because somebody there made me uncomfortable. The third and final fact is that I have a large dog that doesn't take kindly to unwelcome intruders in my house."

Regan cleared her throat and met his eye. A single thin eyebrow was raised questioningly. "What can I say," she forced out, "I'm an interesting person."

"Now I do apologise, Miss Byron, if I have caused you any manner of-" he uncrossed his legs and edged forward, " _Discomfort._ As that is simply not my intention."

"Not your intention?! You fucki-"

Mr. Moriarty held up a hand. "You will address me with the same respect with which you address your other teachers, _Miss Byron._ And that includes controlling your horrendous sarcastic tendencies."

Regan grit her teeth. This was bullshit. This man was clearly deranged, and was going to pretend that he didn't practically stalk her all the way from her house to her school. The truth of the matter was that he had scared the crap out of her, and was now acting like _she_ was the one who was behaving unreasonably and disrespectfully.

"Now, Regan..." he continued, "I'm not an unreasonable man. I'm aware that you have interpreted this morning as cause for alarm – so I'm not opposed to a little... _Quid pro quo_." he purred, eyes not leaving her own for a moment. "Please, sit."

"-I'd really best be getting off, sir..."

" _Sit._ "

It was a simple command, but somehow said with an authority different to that which she was used to. Sure, she'd been a little shit in her time and had had her fair share of teachers barking various commands at her – but nothing like that. So, naturally, she sat on the desk opposite his own.

"Let me tell you a few interesting facts about myself." Moriarty offered, stretching himself out with dramatic effect. "I'm a Gemini," he shrugged, pouting his lips innocently. "I... drive a Mercedes..."

Regan glared at him darkly and was met with a condescending grin.

" _Andddd..._ I enjoy poetry."

"So you're in fact, not a dangerous psychopathic criminal hell-bent on making my life as unpleasant as possible and driving me into a state of paranoia and other associated complications?" she spoke quickly and quietly in a single breath.

"Of course not, and you should probably watch less crime thrillers – yes?" he winked.

Regan forced out a nervous laugh. "Can I go now?"

He nodded and she scooped up her things in record time. She was halfway out the door when he called out after her, "Regan."

She paused as he took a few purposeful strides towards her, and held out the paper. She looked down at her writing and back up at him. She took it, giving it a gentle tug – but the English teacher was holding onto it firmly. "Yes...?" she breathed. He was close. She only need lean forward and they'd be touching.

His eyes were scanning every feature on her face with guarded intent. "I want honest answers out of you by tomorrow."

Regan parted her lips to say something, but they hung heavy and useless. She pulled the paper out of his clutches and made a quick escape.

* * *

"I didn't know you smoked." Kate mused from beside her.

Regan had quickly down the hallway, through the entrance to the school and was propped on the steps – it seemed like some place Mr. Moriarty wouldn't be able to get to – what, with a busy schedule being a teacher and all. "I don't." she replied curtly.

"Then why did-"

"Because he's a filthy liar, that's why." Regan sulked, drawing her legs up to her core and hugging them protectively.

"Regan I don't think you can say that... What's your problem with him, anyway?"

Regan let out a long breath of exasperation. In truth, she wasn't sure anymore. She didn't question the validity of the disturbing events of the morning – but he was playing the game, or whatever he was up to. She couldn't do anything about it now. She needed to keep her enrolment to the school, and that was fact. She didn't want to imagine her parents stopping their bickering long enough to turn on her – and all for what? Being uncomfortable with a teacher? "Do you remember, back in grade 5, we had that god awful class teacher? The old crone with the hairy lip and talons for hands?"

"Ms. Pearson, yeah..." Kate shuddered.

Kate and Regan had instigated a series of plots to get her fired, sick of her constant clutching at their cheeks and musing about the blessings of youth. In hindsight, she was just a lonely old woman who probably never had any children and wanted them – or wasted her own childhood and was desperate to reclaim that feeling. In the end, though, that didn't matter. They somehow managed to send her to hospital with botulism. "Do you remember how she made you feel?"

"Terrified, disgusted, uncomfortable-" Kate began.

"Precisely." Regan interrupted, frowning at her friend.

Kate gazed blankly back at her. "But he's so..." she began, sounding incredibly taken aback by Regan's feelings.

"So?"

"Hot...?" Kate said with a lopsided smile, before giggling to herself.

Regan rolled her eyes. "You're telling me that the entire time I was being singled out for this torture, you're busy ogling his arse?"

"Well, not _ogling_. But you can just see the lean muscle beneath that perfectly tailored suit? And his eyes!"

Regan held up a hand in protest. "Oh my god, that's really enough of that." She looked away from her blushing friend and out at the street. They sat there together for quite a while as Regan watched the world. At the busy bees in the hive of society, the ordinary people doing ordinary things. They'd leave their ordinary family and their ordinary home, to go to ordinary jobs. The jobs in which there are hundreds of painfully ordinary people working for just one extraordinary person who'd look down at them and see what they really were – unfortunate and unmotivated. Regan would often watch the streets, the hustling and bustling of work-a-day people, and think. She thought so much, that she swore to herself that she wouldn't end up there. She wouldn't leave this school, get an ordinary job, have an ordinary romance, and die an unremarkable and ordinary death. That wasn't the way to go, it was too average.

"... Imagine fucking him." Kate pondered.

The stampede of feet in the hallway signalled the end of the period. Regan looked over at her friend in disgust. "I don't fuck the crazy ones, thank you very much." she grinned.

* * *

The rest of the day crawled by on its hands and knees. She found herself terribly bored and hardly took anything in – not that it was too much of a shame, anyway, her classes mainly consisted of hungover and angry teachers trying to wrangle the still hyperactive class they were supposed to be teaching. Some of them even gave up, which surprised Regan – they usually lasted longer. She reflected briefly on the attention and respect with which the teens treated Mr. Moriarty, and then quickly scolded herself for letting her mind wander to him when she was clearly meant to be solving equations.

Eventually, though, the clock struck three and she was free to leave. And leave she did, fast. But evidently not fast enough, as Kate tracked her down instantly and proceeded to gush to her about the boy who'd winked at her in third period as they walked to Regan's home. Regan didn't have to the heart to tell her that she frankly couldn't give a shit, so instead she just nodded and smiled and made appropriate reaction noises. In reality, she was just keeping an eye open for a suspicious black Mercedes. She had doubts that he could be, well, psychotic, anymore - just because they were both certain he was a teacher at her school, and any untoward attention would surely get him out of her life as soon as he shoved himself into it.

"Are you listening?" Kate squeaked.

"What? Yeah, yeah I'm listening."

Whatever he was trying to do, whatever his Machiavellian motivations were - she'd figure it out.

"Prove it then!"

"Uh... His... Arse...?" she guessed.

"Yes but _whose_ arse?"

She'd figure out what disturbing things were swimming around beneath that slicked backed hair, behind the stupid grin, behind the dark brown eyes and thick lashes and-

"Oh Jesus Christ, Kate. I don't know."

Kate huffed, but didn't say another word.

* * *

The next morning, the urge to stay safe under the covers was more overwhelming than ever. Why on Earth would she need to leave the bed - when she had everything she could ever possibly want, right here? Sure, there was that little voice in her head that said, 'Hey, Regan. No, you need to get out and socialise and mingle.' - but what good were people anyway.

She stretched. Her mouth's perfect "o" pursed, and she furrowed her brow. She had had some pretty fucked up dreams in the past, but this one took the cake: she'd been wandering the school halls, but they weren't quite the halls, one of the doors was surrounded by a consuming darkness - save for the the door, which illuminated the scene. She'd made her way over to it, and opened - looking frantically for whoever was inside. She felt desperate, like something was wrong - guilty, almost. There was nobody there, but a voice in her ear was hurling unintelligible accusations at her - things that hurt, and she supposed she must've been crying. A book was waved in front of her face: it was small, red, with black cursive writing on the front. It frightened her... Then she woke up.

What a start to a day, though, being scared of a book. She did detest reading at times, but she wouldn't go so far as being terrified by processed piles of pulp and a various arrangements of a 26 letters. On a brighter note: there wasn't any trouble in paradise. Downstairs was quiet, and instead of the usual shouting - happy clinks and clatters of spoons on bowls and warm laughter came from below. Odd, yes, but she'd take it.

Perhaps this year wasn't going to be so bad after all.

And then Regan recalled that she had English again that day, and proceeded to let out a hearty scream into her pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

:3:

Regan had already endured several boring classes already when the time for English had ticked ever closer. She made her way to the room and quietly sat down at the back of the class undisturbed, considering that Mr. Moriarty hadn't showed up to teach quite yet. She called out to Kate, who'd just walked in clutching her books tightly. The girl ignored her, instead opting to sit with some other screeching girls who all seemed very eager for the arrival of the teacher. Regan shrugged. That was her choice. But she couldn't help the twinge of guilt associated with snubbing a friend purely because of her own unfounded, personal conflicts. Regan, indeed, was not the most sensitive individual - which was why she didn't identify with having that many friends. She was just disappointed that Kate seemed to have forgotten that.

" _Move_ , move, move!"

Regan was forced out of her reflection as she looked up to see Moriarty pushing his way through a few unsuspecting students with a heavy looking box that was practically over-flowing with books. He drops it on his desk with a thud and a well-deserved, suffering exhale. He dusts his hands off and turns to face the class - the last few stragglers who'd yet to have seated themselves racing to sit down. Regan watched him throw a sideways glance to Kate in the front row, who'd hiked up her skirt far above the level deemed appropriate in the dress code - and was twirling a long lock of red hair in her fingers. Regan stopped her hand from all but hitting herself in the forehead.

Mr. Moriarty cleared his throat, "Now, we've a bit of a _chaaaange_ ," Regan furrowed her brow at the strange enunciation of the word. It was almost as if he though his Irish lilt wasn't unsettling enough - and he needed to add more eccentricities to terrify his students. "To the curriculum."

Murmurs.

"Nothing major, I assure you. Just a bit of switching and shuffling around of things. See, I'm _supposed_ to be teaching you poetry at the end of the year - but, I'm _soooo_ changable!"

He grabbed an armful of the books and set to handing them around the classroom. Regan watched as the rest of the class thumbed inquisitively through the pages, straining glean any indication of what the books were. She was the last to receive the book, presumably because she was in the back corner, but in her heart she was hoping that her class wasn't so distracted by the books - she'd just feel safer. Mr. Moriarty strode towards her and handed her the book. She didn't intend to look up at him, but it happened anyway. And for the second time since she'd met him she was sucked into the intense, unbroken, unblinking eye contact. Regan cleared her throat and pried the book away from him. Moriarty smirked, might've mumbled something that sounded a bit like 'enjoy' - but she wasn't one-hundred percent, and he returned to the front of the class.

 _Lord George Gordon Byron: an Anthology of Major Works,_ was inscribed in black cursive on the cover of a squat, red book. She could've thrown up. She didn't even know what thing in particular gave her the most discomfort, his association of herself with Lord Byron through last name, the awfully uncomfortable eye contact - or the dream.

"Lord Byron is one of my _favourite_ poets, and I'm sure you'll all see the same beauty in his work as I do."

She looked up. He met her eye and sneered darkly.

"Now can anybody tell what period his work is from?"

A painful stillness.

"Anybody at all?"

She kept her eyes down, and pretended to be very interested in the dents on the corner of the book. She looked over at the table next to her. Strange. Hers was the only copy that seemed to be older.

"Regan!"

She looked up. "Romantic, sir." she demurred.

"And that is how we answer questions in class, take note children."

Regan glanced over at Kate, who was looking very non-childlike as she bent _over_ her desk to retrieve a pencil. It was almost laughable, however, how much interest Mr. Moriarty was giving her - none, that was. And Kate was trying desperately hard. Suddenly, it was difficult for her to feel any sympathy for her attitudes towards her friend at all. Regan might have been behaving very irritable and snarky lately - but at least she wasn't trying to tap into her inner _Lolita_ and seduce this man who was at the very least in his late twenties (early thirties was more likely, now that she looked closer). She didn't see the appeal, in all honesty. She _supposed_ he was physically attractive, with his well-kept and groomed appearance, sharp jaw - and the way he moved with fluid, almost snake like movements. But it was all just cancelled out by his innate creepiness, and unsettling personality.

"- from 1820 to 1900,"

And besides, what did she honestly expect? Even if she did receive any attention from him, it would only be because he was disturbed enough to consider under age girls romantic partners. But then there was the whole 'love is blind' reality, but at first glance she highly doubted that the self-absorbed, impeccably preened man before her felt much love for anything besides himself.

* * *

She must've really drifted off, because the next thing she noticed was the screeching of chairs on wooden floors as the class raced off to lunch, each of them systematically handing their books back to the teacher. She forced herself up from her chair, taking care to do so gently - she found the screeching noises that chairs made to be utterly infuriating. In typical fashion, she was the last in line - and her only potential back up, Kate, had already left with an exaggerated swing to her hips.

Regan approached Mr. Moriarty's desk and placed the book on the edge. "What are you doing?" she questioned quietly.

Moriarty watched the last of the class trickle out before he spoke, "Teaching, I hope. Why - what do you think I'm doing?"

Regan held up the book accusingly. "Lord Byron, really? _'Any relation to Lord Byron?'_ "

"I had a feeling you liked poetry." he said evenly.

"No! - I mean, I don't mind it, but I don't understand..."

He let out a deep, throaty cough as he adjusted himself in his chair. "May I?" he asked, gesturing at the book she was clutching.

Through gritted teeth, she managed a "Please."

The man took the book gingerly and flicked through the pages. "I found..." flick, "A poem..." flick, pause, flick, flick, "That reminded me of... Here it is. _Stanzas for Music._ "

"Of what?"

But he just looked knowingly up at her from behind the book. " _There be none of Beauty's daughters_

 _With a magic like thee;_

 _And like music on the waters_

 _Is thy sweet voice to me:_

 _When, as if its sound were causing_

 _The charmed Ocean's pausing,_

 _The waves lie still and gleaming,_

 _And the lulled winds seem dreaming:_

 _And the midnight Moon is weaving_

 _Her bright chain o'er the deep;_

 _Whose infant's asleep:_

 _So the spirit bows before thee,_

 _To listen and adore thee;_

 _With a full but soft emotion,_

 _Like the swell of Summer's ocean._ "

Her face flushed with the heat of every embarrassing moment she'd every had the displeasure of experiencing in her life. She stared at him like a deer in the headlights, not knowing what to say - and unwilling to say it even if she knew what, for the fear of misinterpreting the situation. Not that there was much to misconstrue, he was looking up at her with a smug expression that was _almost_ doing a good job and hiding the anticipation in his eyes - he was just waiting, quite literally on the edge of his seat, for her to say something.

"How tragic it must be," he quipped after the tension in the air hung between them like the heaviest of chains, "To be lost for words at a pivotal moment. You can leave now."

"... You want me to stay, then you want me to stay?"

"What can I say... I'm changeable. It's a weakness with me... But to be fair to myself - it is my only weakness." Moriarty jeered.

"Besides the narcissism?"

"I consider that a strength." he mused darkly, his voice taking on a moan quality that made her feel uneasy. "You know what - you should take your copy home tonight, get reading. I'm positive you'll be _enraptured._ " he purred, handing the book back to her.

It was also at that moment that she noted this classroom was right next to the music rooms, as a sudden crescendo of unmistakably Baroque music rose up and penetrated the wall between the two rooms.

A smile twisted across Mr. Moriarty's face. "Johann Sebastian would be _appalled,_ no?"

Regan managed a smile before tentatively shoving the book into her bag and quickly legging it to lunch.

* * *

"It's so _unfair_." Kate complained.

Suddenly, it seemed, that her friend finally chosen to express interest in her. Regan was returning her things to her locker when Kate had ambushed her and was now proceeding to complain to her. "What is?"

Kate huffed. "You're getting all the attention."

Regan laughed. "Attention, sure... Uh, what attention is this?"

"From _Mr. Sex_." she purred.

And all Regan's things went crashing onto the floor. She groaned and knelt to gather her things back together. "Is that what we're calling good ol' Jim Moriarty now?"

"How could you _not_!" she sighed, clutching her hands to her chest. "The way he just... He just has a way of saying things you know? It's sort of like that aristocrat thing, innit? Painting poetic pictures with his words..."

"Ah-huh." was all that Regan could offer and she stuck the books in her locker. Her breath hitched at the sight of the red one. Best not to get Kate going off anymore, right? She quickly stuffed it back into her back and shut the locker.

"And the way he moves... All dangerously."

"Sure."

"Do you think he smokes?"

Regan let the smallest of smirks twist across her face. "Oh, definitely." she lulled, beaming at her friend. It was much easier to keep things from people when you didn't have to play the 'I don't know what you're talking about' card.

" _Hot_...!" Kate said to herself, as if it were a particularly violent curse. "And you're getting all the attention..."

Here we go, Regan rolled her eyes.

"Why!" she complained. "I try, am I not attractive enough?"

"No, you're pretty Kate. You know that."

And he isn't the kind of guy to go for pretty, is he? Regan thought. Not just pretty. That'd be too easy.

* * *

 **Sorry for the short chapter, but that's as much plot as I wanted to cover. :)**

 **Obviously, the poem is by Lord Byron and not myself.**

 **Please be sure to review, positive and negative - any review, really, are all welcomed and encouraged. :3**


	4. Chapter 4

:4:

Sometimes Regan forgot she despised school lunches, not so much the low quality food as the loud atmosphere. Kate had trotted off to spout some fan-girl rubbish no doubt, so Regan was left alone to scoop up a tray of reasonably acceptable looking food. She scanned the room, but since she was kept just marginally late by Moriarty - there weren't any empty tables, and so she'd have to find a seat at an occupied table. Somehow, the prospect of that was incredibly unappealing, so instead she made her way to one of the walls and slid down it to sit on the floor. She poked at the steamed vegetables with a plastic fork, making various noises of dissatisfaction. Somehow, she wasn't that hungry anymore. Regan put the tray down in front of her and took out her phone, attempting to shelter it in her lap.

"If it isn't Regan Byron." a shrill voice called out.

Regan rolled her eyes and looked up. "If it wasn't I'd be very concerned for your eye sight, Irene."

The girl clicked her tongue. Regan mused that her perpetual bitch face didn't quite suit her. Irene Adler was quite a good looking girl, with the elegant facial features and long legs of a girl who'd have a bright future in the fashion industry if she'd like. Instead, the girl opted to get fucked up on drugs every other weekend, sleep around and constantly smelled of tobacco. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, she was still incredibly popular - and had had it out for Regan ever since she'd punched her in that smug scowl of her's two years ago for 'accidentally' spilling her Chai latte on an assignment of hers. "I might need contacts but at least my face isn't as fucked up as yours." she hissed.

" _Inventive_." Regan hummed. "What do you want?"

Irene propped a hand up on her hip and loomed over Regan. "Don't you just think our new English teacher is _smokin'_ hot?"

Regan let out a groan.

"I wonder what faculty would say if they knew you two were getting so well acquainted?"

"Nothing, considering that to be acquaintances we'd have to have spoken."

Irene let out a low chuckle. "Oh, Regan. See, if you only knew the things I know. One thing is that he's kept you back after class every day of the school year."

The two of them were attracting a bit of attention now, a few sheep pausing in chewing their cud to watch the proceedings with vacant eyes. "An accusation which would surely be more effective if this school year hadn't elapsed a spectacular time period of just two days."

"So you admit he's kept you back..." she grinned, gesturing grandly to their audience.

"Well, yeah-"

Irene leaned down. "And you think he's attractive?"

"Not to me." Regan seethed. This girl was really getting on her nerves.

"But he is an attractive man, no?"

"And a teacher."

"When did that ever stop anyone, Regan?" Irene beamed.

Regan shrugged. Irene was infamous for coming onto the psychology teacher nearly every class. Mr. Holmes seemed either oblivious or really gave no shits. "Yes, well." Regan started, scooping up her tray and standing up. "Maybe if you weren't such a cow, you'd get some attention from men of intelligence - no?" She quipped, pushing past Irene to put the tray on a table.

By now they'd amassed a small circle of onlookers, and Regan was getting increasingly irritated.

"I wonder what he'd say if he somehow got this..." Irene hummed, handing her a piece of folded paper.

Tentatively, Regan took it and unfolded it:

 _Mr. Moriarty, you should know you're so hot_

 _When I see you my stomach is a knot_

 _I always love the lessons you've taught_

 _And if only we wouldn't get caught ;)_

 _Through my eyes of blue_

 _I love to watch the things you do_

 _I hope you'll give me flowers_

 _And meet me in the showers_

"Are you kidding me?" Regan scoffed, trying not to vomit. "My eyes aren't even blue, f-y-i, and this is garbage."

Irene gave an innocent smile. "All the more convincing that you wrote it, huh?"

Irene extended an arm to tuck a piece of hair behind Regan's ear mockingly. In return, Regan seized her wrist with one hand, twisted it around her back and pushed her elbow up towards her neck. "Alright, _Irene_." she spat, "You continue getting all up in my shit, go for it." Regan pushed the arm up more, eliciting a yelp from Irene who was struggling to get away without moving the arm. "I fucking dare you. But next time you try to pick a fight with me again and so help me I will break this bloody arm."

Before the figures in her peripheral vision could get any closer and pull her off the Queen Bee, Regan let Irene's arm go and turned on her heel to leave. She didn't know what she expected, as Irene decided that being submitted in public _wasn't_ on her conceited to-do list today, and lunged after her. As soon as Regan felt the hands on her back, she spun around and let a well-placed elbow collide with the girl's face.

She looked down at the knocked out heap. She shrugged, "I did a few muay thai classes back in the day."

Inevitably, a figure of reasonable authority was called to break up the fight. What Regan didn't expect was it to be the man himself.

"What happened here?" he lulled, making his way through the crowd - but not looking very surprised at the proceedings.

Irene was clutching her nose which dripped with a caustic crimson colour. "Dat phucking bish..." she spat. It obviously pained her to speak. "Broke my nosh!"

Moriarty sucked his teeth. "Let's have a look at it." he knelt down, taking care not to get any of the blood on his suit. He gingerly removed Irene's hand from her face and looked at the offending appendage. He touched it gently, evoking a squeak from the girl. "Well, it's definitely not broken... But -" he gestured for Kate to come forward, who had been watching in fear, who suddenly looked very delighted. "Uh, you - girl. Take Irene to the nurse's office, will you?"

"Kate." she snapped.

"What?"

"My name is _Kate_." Kate scowled.

Moriarty shook his head and picked up the poem - now splattered with blood. He read it briskly, and turned to Regan with raised eyebrows. A flash of pain shot through Regan's elbow, and she cradled it. Irene's face would definitely leave a bruise. He put the poem in his pocket and approached Regan with a sigh.

"You're going to have to come with me..." he said in a dull tone, placing a hand gently on her back and pushing her forward.

Regan didn't have the energy to protest, and simply left the lunch hall with the man.

* * *

"You're bleeding." Moriarty said suddenly, stopping them on their walk of shame to the Principal's office.

Regan looked down at her elbow. "I... Don't think that's mine..." she said tentatively, hiding the elbow.

"Let me look." Moriarty commanded, grabbing her forearm.

Pain shot through her elbow again, and she sucked in air. She watched in horror and a hint of confusion as he licked his thumb and used it to wipe dried blood off her elbow.

He looked appraisingly at the elbow, briefly up into her eyes, and back at the elbow. "You've got a small gash where the skin split. Hang on." he informed her, putting his bag down and shuffling around.

Regan looked around. People were giving her awful looks, and she started to consider that perhaps she'd made a mistake. "Shouldn't I go to the nurses office?"

Moriarty produced a band-aid. "And have you start another fight?" he opened the packet and stuck the small piece of material on the gash. "Not likely." he grinned.

Regan groaned. "You know it wasn't my fault - right?"

Moriarty sighed and picked his bag back up, opting to say nothing at all as he continued in the direction of the Principal's office. He sat her down in the chairs outside. "Wait here."

She sat as Mr. Moriarty knocked on the door to the office and slipped in. Regan wrung her hands together. Second day of school and she'd already been sent to the office, caused an injury, hurt herself - _and_ additionally been forced to be in Moriarty's company again. Although, arguably, he wasn't acting as vile as she'd presumed him to be. But she knew it had to be an act, there was something off about him. He was acting so, normal. And that's what she planned to confront him about as he stepped out of the office.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked lowly.

"Unfortunately, Regan, it's my responsibility."

"Why yours? Why not someone else's?"

Moriarty scowled at her. "If you'd like to discuss your unreasonable aversion to me with the Principal, go ahead. But-" he sat down next to her and leaned close. "I can assure you, anything you accuse me of will go unnoticed."

There it was. "You followed me to school." she snarled back at him.

He chuckled, it was a deep throaty noise. "And you can't prove it."

She couldn't help the small gasp that escaped her. "But you admit it?"

He tilted his head downwards and looked up at her, an angle which made him looking menacing - and somehow more realistic to what she truly believed the man to be, twisted. He bit his lower lip slowly.

The door to the office opened. "Regan Byron, please, come in... Is everything all right here, Mr. Moriarty?"

"Just making sure she's alright." Moriarty proclaimed.

Regan got up quickly and followed Principal Lestrade into his office.

* * *

"So you're telling me that, although you attacked Irene Adler first - to my knowledge completely unprovoked, it isn't your fault?"

"Precisely."

"Mr. Moriarty-"

"I know as much as you do."

Regan let out a loud groan of annoyance as she stretched over the back of the chair. "Alright, she wrote a particularly upsetting and malicious piece of, well, I wouldn't call it writing."

Moriarty stifled a laugh.

"Do you know anything about this, Jim?"

Mr. Moriarty leaned forward onto the desk, steepling his fingers like he did when he meant business. Regan eyed the bloodstained parchment in his pocket with a thrumming heart. "I didn't see anything that might've provoked the fight, Lestrade, but I consider myself an excellent judge of character..."

"Well, yes you would but-"

"And I sincerely believe that Miss. Byron would not attack anybody unprovoked." he negotiated, tossing Regan a sideways glance.

"And while faculty values your insight, Jim - we can't ignore school policy. We can't have students - people, attacking each other!" Lestrade said, banging his fist on the table.

Regan deduced that this was perhaps not the best place to be. There was clearly some bad blood, and she quickly found herself wanting to be anywhere but in this dark little room with it's frayed curtains and fake pot plants.

"That's what people do!" Moriarty roared, jumping forward in his seat and looming over the table at Lestrade. Regan jumped and scooted her seat back. The noise caused Moriarty to turn his head. His angrily twisted expression softened as he saw Regan's shocked expression. "That's what people do." he repeated quietly, eyes on hers. "Regan, you won't do this again - correct?"

She quickly nodded.

"I'm going to need to call your parents, Regan." Lestrade said submissively. "We'll talk more later. You can wait outside - Jim, you can leave."

Regan all but raced to the door. Moriarty followed her. "I'll stay." he said softly, once they were safely outside. Regan could faintly make out a 'Mr. Byron?' and several unnecessary formalities. She knew her parents would understand, so she wasn't necessarily worried. In fact they probably wouldn't even care.

"Why are you doing this..." Regan parroted again, uselessly.

"Repetition isn't a good look, dear." he teased. Moriarty reached into his pocket and produced the poem. "Want to tell me what this is?"

"I..." Regan stammered, feeling her face flush a brilliant hotness. "Didn't write that."

He scoffed. "Of course you didn't."

"I can't tell if that's sarcastic or not." she mumbled.

"Put it this way - I've seen very few pieces of poetry, even ones written as a joke, as bad as this. Perhaps only marginally better than," he shuddered, " _Haikus._ "

"Then why are you waving it around?" she asked, looking cautiously between the blinds into the office. Lestrade was busy on the phone. "It's even got blood on it."

"I think it's funny, honestly." he smirked. "And I'd like to know why it was written by Irene in the first place."

" _Mr. Sex._ " she spat, as if the words hurt to say.

"Are you proposit-"

"That's what you're called. It would seem you're quite a hit with the ladies, Mr. Moriarty." Regan said smoothly.

He sneered. "I am, _aware_ , of this. Teenage girls aren't quite as subtle as they like to think they are."

Regan hummed in agreement.

"And you?" he suggested quietly - almost inaudibly quiet, as if it were a rhetorical question only for his own benefit.

"Huh?"

"Noooothiiinn _g_." he lulled, pulling the door to the office dramatically as he rolled his head around in an incredibly odd fashion. Regan started breathing again, unaware she'd been holding it.

* * *

She tapped her feet impatiently. They'd been in there for a while, and nobody had told her what was going on or where she needed to go. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, an hour. After that she wasn't sure. Her phone went flat and it was dark outside.

The door opened. "You're free to leave now." Lestrade said. "Everything's been, uh," he looked nervously back, "Cleared up. Are you alright to get home?"

Regan gave a quick, "Yeah."

Moriarty, who'd slipped out of the room in record time, caught her wrist as she was turning to leave. "It's dark outside." he pointed out.

"No shit."

"Let me drive you home, it's my fault it took so long."

"It's only a few blocks, I-"

"Let me drive you home." he repeated.

Regan sighed in defeat. She really didn't want to be here any longer, but she was tired and in a bit of pain. Surely things couldn't get any worse than they already had. "Fine."

* * *

 **Okay I just really love writing this tension - hopefully it's entertaining to read. :) I was hesitant to introduce some other characters, but I think it all worked pretty seamlessly.**

 **If you didn't pay enough attention to the genres of this story, it heavily features angst. So there's going to be a lot of that coming up - but, uh, hopefully you guys won't hold it against me. ;) If you enjoyed it, you know what to do. :***


	5. Chapter 5

"Just let me grab some things, I'll be out in a minute." Moriarty told her, gesturing towards the exit to the car park around the back of the school.

Regan nodded and started walking. It'd definitely been an interesting second day of school, and she was a little confused as to how this had all developed so quickly. It felt like only yesterday that she was terrified of this man as he followed her to school - because it was only yesterday. And somehow, he'd made her feel like it wasn't as much of a big deal as it actually was - because his ulterior motives were so brilliantly disguised. He'd taunt her fear, and then dismiss it altogether. She didn't appreciate being manipulated in this way, and it shot up about ten million red flags. But somehow she'd ended up here - accepting a lift home. She wondered if this was a situation that her childhood warnings of 'don't get into stranger's cars' applied to.

She stepped out into the cool evening air, not cold - but crisp and refreshing compared to the stuffy interior of the school. It was quite invigorating, and took her mind off everything, if only for a moment.

Mr. Moriarty exited the building behind her with a few folders. "Come along then." he grinned, making a b-line for the most expensive looking car in the car park, the same black Mercedes that frightened her only yesterday. The car opened with trilling little beep, and he dropped his stuff in the boot. "Hand your bag here." Regan gave him her bag and took her seat in the passenger side. The interior was leather, but absolutely messy. It was quite a juxtaposition to the well-groomed man himself, that such an expensive possession could be filled with various papers and old coffee cups. Moriarty got in the drivers seat and smirked at her. "I know it's a mess, don't look at me with those judgey little eyes."

He started the car and began driving out of the empty car park. She looked down at her feet. The floor of the car was riddled with cigarette papers. Absolutely riddled, some new, some old, some clean, some scrunched. She knew he smoked, of course, but it obviously played a bigger part in his life than she anticipated. It made her feel oddly sad. He was, what, near or in his thirties - and it was probably a long-standing habit. There's no way anybody in this day and age couldn't _know_ that it was a horrible habit - and yet he continued to do it. Why?

"I know it's bad." he said quietly, as if he was reading her mind. It was more likely, in fact, that he was reading her ill-disguised expression of dread and disgust. "I hate it, I really do."

Head lights from oncoming traffic illuminate his face briefly as they pass. His expression was forlorn it made him look almost beautiful in the dim light.

"Then why do you do it?" Regan inquired.

He let out a quiet sigh.

She looked out the window, "Sorry... I, shouldn't have presumed." she stammered.

"It's fine, I like people who are curious."

She let out nervous laughter.

"So what are we going to do about all these presumptions surrounding us?"

Her laughter was instantly stifled and she felt her face go red again. "Er, what?"

"As in how are we going to dismiss these rumours about something unethical and illegal. I have ears, Regan, I heard the shouting before I intervened."

"So you knew there was a 'fight'?" she made air quotation marks.

"Correct."

"And you only intervened after someone was hurt?"

"Also correct." he said. She could hear the cheesy grin in his voice.

That didn't make much sense to Regan. "Isn't it your responsibility as a teacher to stop students from hurting each other?"

"You're on the ball tonight, Regan."

"So... Why did you wait so long? We could've avoided this whole situation." Regan had a moment of clarity, "Unless, that was your plan?"

He tapped a finger to his nose.

"That's... So cruel." she gasped.

"I wanted to see what would happen, what is so wrong with that?"

"What's wron-, well, for a start - I could've been hurt." she argued.

He laughed. "I doubt that."

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she spluttered, outraged. He stopped the car and she looked out the window. "And how do you know where I live?!" Alarm bells were going off like fireworks in her mind.

"I willingly chose to teach high school English." he simply said. "Perhaps a more informative question would be what isn't wrong with me?"

He took his hands off the wheel and let his elbow sit on the glove box, where her own elbow was already propped. They touched in a way that shot an alarming tingle all the way from the point of contact, to the back of her neck, and down her spine - making her shiver. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"There's a good question... Call it - curiosity. Because without curiosity we're boring wastes of space... And I _detest_ being bored." he droned.

Regan sat awkwardly there for a moment, wondering if she could even gather the energy to move her elbow and leave - something glued her to her spot and she hated it.

"That's why you're not boring, Regan. You have curiosity, and you're not one of those dreadful _ordinary_ people. Do you ever wonder to yourself sometimes, Regan, what it must be like?" he asked, turning to face her and thankfully removing his elbow. She quickly put her hands in her lap. "To be ordinary?"

"I never considered myself to be extraordinary, Mr. Moriarty."

"Call me Jim."

"Yes, well, I really must be getting home - er, Jim. Thank you for the lift."

He looked vaguely disappointed, but nodded. "Remember to give that book a read, no _excuseeeees._ " he lulled.

Regan quickly got out of the car, grabbed her bag from the boot, and opened the gate to her front yard. She turned. He had his window down, sunglasses on (despite the time of day, which she found slightly disconcerting), and nodded to her before driving off at high speed down her street. She shook her head to herself.

* * *

"Who was that man?" her father barked at her as soon as she walked in the front door. "Why are you getting into strange men's car? He looked like a criminal, Regan - did you get a lift from a criminal? Do you know what could've happened to you?" he ranted. Regan was surprised he could even get enough breath in his damaged lungs to spout these accusations at her. Surely enough, it was followed by an almighty cough.

Regan's mother patted her father's back. "Your father's right, Regan. For once." she shot him a cold glare. "We were worried about you - what, with the fight at school? And now you're getting into dark cars with tinted windows!"

"Have you fallen in with a bad crowd?" her father rasped once he had regathered himself.

Her mother gasped. "It's your smoking that does it, Brian. I always tell you, 'don't smoke around Regan, Brian. She'll pick it up.' Now look what's happened?" she leaned forward and smelled Regan. "Oh good Lord, she even smells like smoke."

"If you two are quite done..."

"No we're-" her father started, but all he could manage was an exasperated, "Young lady!" as she pushed passed them to go up the stairs.

She paused at the base, "By the way, that shifty character was my English teacher. And yes, he does smoke - which explains why I reek. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to have a shower and try to forget about today - okay?"

And that's what she did. The steam was surprisingly clarifying. It made her forget about the car ride, the fight, the gazes and glances, the book - oh Lord. The book. The poetry... She couldn't help but laugh softly to herself as she shampooed her hair. The whole situation was really ridiculous, wasn't it? No student should ever have to worry about her feelings for her teacher - and vice versa. Not that there were any explicit feelings, per se, but there was _something_. Something tangible, like a word just on the tip of her tongue - but it's a word that hasn't been made yet, there but not there. Almost like those words in other languages that aren't translatable into English because we don't have the proper words to capture the emotion these foreign words do. It was a feeling she was desperate to clutch, to grasp and hold between shaking hands. But she couldn't.

She turned off the shower and pulled her slip onto her body. She padded with damp feet across the hall into her room and shut the door. She pulled the red book out of her bag, and flicked through the pages idly as she lay on the bed with legs languidly waving in the air - glancing at the prose and poetry, trying her best to absorb _something_ but found herself wanting to collapse and sleep to relieve herself of her busy thoughts. She was almost ready to put the book down and turn off the light when a poem caught her eye, _Stansas For Music_ , the same poem Moriarty... Jim, had read her.

" _There be none of Beauty's daughters_

 _With a magic like thee;_

 _And like music on the waters_

 _Is thy sweet voice to me:_

 _When, as if its sound were causing_

 _The charmed Ocean's pausing,_

 _The waves lie still and gleaming,_

 _And the lulled winds seem dreaming:_

 _And the midnight Moon is weaving_

 _Her bright chain o'er the deep;_

 _Whose infant's asleep:_

 _So the spirit bows before thee,_

 _To listen and adore thee;_

 _With a full but soft emotion,_

 _Like the swell of Summer's ocean._ "

Uncannily, she could hear his voice as she read the words. His languid lilt barely flicking over the sounds as he read the words, as though he often read beautiful poetry and this was no different - as though reading romantic poetry to a student was a casual and not at all inappropriate thing. It was the risks he took that... intrigued Regan. He was risking his job, career - and possibly risking jail time, just to pursue this strange fascination that he had with Regan. His morbid curiosity, which he would stop at nothing to satisfy. A curiosity which he believe that she shared.

Something in the margins on the page caught her eye:

 _"I didn't expect this either, Regan."  
_

At some point between her handing the book in and getting handed it back, Jim had scrawled it in grey-lead in the margin. Or at least, she hoped he didn't preempt it all. But she wasn't entirely sure what he meant, and was still astounded that he even knew she'd find her way to the poem he'd recited for her. She walked over to her bag, pulled out a pencil, and scrawled under it:

 _"Don't vandalise school property."_

Romantic, Regan. She scoffed to herself. But romance was hardly her intention - she was just feeling out this trying situation at this point, wading through murky waters in the hope she didn't get pulled under. It was stupid risk, but somehow, in some way - she didn't believe she had a choice. The situation was magnetic. Perhaps Jim was right - maybe she did have a fatal curiosity. She was just thankful she wasn't a cat at this point.

She read the poem over and over, and over again. She tried to read other poems, but she was drawn back to this one. The pure emotion, the perfectly captured infatuation that Lord Byron felt as he wrote the words. She found it beautiful, how love was timeless - that a hand long gone could pen something with a feeling that still rung so true with everyone alive that chose to feel it. How inevitable it was, to fall in love.

She heard his voice in her head, till she fell asleep with the book still open by her side.


	6. Chapter 6

Probably the most detrimental consequence of yesterday's fight, besides her sore elbow, slightly confused psyche, and Irene's red and angry nose - would be the social stigma that came with it. Regan noticed almost immediately that her classmates were growing quite wary of her, and it was to the point that everybody opted to sit away from her in math. She enjoyed the peace at first, but after a few periods she began to feel quite lonely. At lunch, she had an entire table to herself just because everyone was too ashamed to be seen with the girl who dared to fight back to Irene. Regan imagined that the whole hype would die down by tomorrow, as these things often did, but for now she was feeling the effects strongly. Even Kate, who'd surely have something to say about Jim by now - shyed away from her in the halls with a pitiful smile. So Regan picked at her food in a sullen silence until the bell went.

She arrived slightly late to English due to a few locker shenanigans, but she didn't imagine it would be late enough to make any substantial difference - she definitely didn't think that Mr. Moriarty would give her any explicit consequence. However, when she arrived, the class was clustered at the back of the room with their own little red books - eyeing her with these looks that told her if she dared sit anywhere near them and _not_ and in the suspiciously isolated desk at the front of the room, there would be riots. She didn't feel like being too much of a shit-stirrer today, so she took her place in front of Jim's desk and pulled out her own old red book.

Jim watched her take her place keenly, with his usual predatory grin on his face. He waited patiently until she was set up, and then rose to address the class.

"Homework, please." he lulled, looking incredibly bored with the class.

The class shuffled around with papers, most of them producing the work. Regan looked around, slightly agitated - she hadn't heard of any homework, was there any? She couldn't for the life of her remember him setting any, all she remembered was that fucking book. Defeated, she simply produced a blank piece of paper. Jim chose to victimise _her_ first, swaggering over to the front of her desk and turning the paper quickly towards him - as if he were turning the invisible words the right way up. He looked at the paper appraisingly. She supposed nobody besides the two of them would be savvy to the fact that there were, indeed, no words on that paper.

"Very good, Regan." he said, looking impishly up at her - before moving on.

Regan quickly put away the paper. She felt proud of herself, although she might've felt as though she'd gotten away with much more if it wasn't the teacher that assigned the work letting her off that easily. Once upon a time she might've felt guilty about the unfair advantage she appeared to be getting - but considering the work load of last year she was selfishly grateful for anything she could get.

Mr. Moriarty finished judging the rest of the unknown and mysterious homework, soon returning to the front of the room. She shuffled the papers around on his desk for a moment, before saying transparently melodramatically, "Oh, I seem to have handed out all my copies of the book." he slipped around the desk to meet Regan at hers, "Can I borrow yours, Regan?" he grinned.

Regan handed him the book, and he flipped through it quickly - Adam's apple bobbing. He opened the book in the approximate place she remembered their poem to be, he grinned down at her - before flipping back through the book to get to the section he wanted to read.

It was at this point Regan spaced out. She wasn't at all interested in the many fantastical exploits of Lord Byron, in all honesty. She couldn't help but be extraordinarily distracted by the fact that Jim was still standing in front of her desk, reciting poetry to a bored class - while she had nothing to look at besides his belt buckle. Which, she noted sarcastically, was just as clean and tidy as the rest of his appearance. She thought back to his car, the absolute seething mess of nicotine that he adorned the expensive interior in, and the unpredictable contrast of his character.

He finished reading and turned to write some notes about the poet's life on the board in the same cursive, neat writing with which he wrote in the book. Regan copied them down wordlessly till class ended. She packed up her things, and Mr. Moriarty returned the book to her after he'd collected the rest of the class's copies. He'd dog-eared the page of their poem, she noted, as she covertly put it in her bag.

"I'd like to find some time to talk before the day is over." he mused, tracing lines with an elegant finger on the edge of her desk.

"What time?" she replied, not looking up from shuffling with her bag.

" _Some_ time, didn't you hear me?" Jim jeered.

Regan picked up her bag, tossing him a lopsided grin and nodded. "Whatever you say."

* * *

She couldn't help but warm up to Jim. She didn't even want to try to fight it anymore, despite his idiosyncrasies, quirks and obsessive nature - he was charming. He had that rare charm, the one that politicians and talentless people who are for some reason celebrities have. She supposed it was also the sort of charm that made you like a person despite every sane nerve in your body threatening to shut you down if you go through with causing yourself pain. It was simple to have moments of clarity like that... when she wasn't in the same room as him. But it was almost as though the precise moment she'd lay eyes on him - his 'charm' would persuade her brain: hey, you gotta like me, I'm so mysterious and I like you. And that was somehow enough for her.

"The psychology of obsession." Mr. Holmes drawled as he wrote the words in cursive on the board. Psyche was Regan's favourite class, despite Mr. Holmes being one of the more eccentric teachers in the school. Although, frankly, nearly all of the teachers who taught at her school were off-colour in one way or another - but Mr. Holmes was right up there (of course, in her personal opinion, just behind Mr. Moriarty - but Jim took careful measures to ensure that he appeared that way to nobody but her). There was the Irene scandal, of course, where Mr. Holmes demonstrated that he was not open to flirtation from his students and sent her to the school counselor to discuss the technicalities and boundaries of the teacher-student relationship. Then there were the rumours about him and the gym teacher, Mr. Watson. But, to Regan, that was neither here nor there - she couldn't care less above who wanted-to/was shagging who, as long as she was getting taught it didn't matter much. "Tell me about the types of obsession." he demanded.

A hand shot up, "Addiction."

"Elementary, try harder." Mr. Holmes snapped.

"Compulsive disorders." another voice said.

"Better, better." he shrugged.

A voice purred, "Romantic."

Mr. Holmes clapped his hands. "An excellent point, Irene. Personal bias aside," he shot her a glare, raising a snicker. She went red - which was surprising consider half her face looked quite bandaged and white. "We all have or will have an experience with romantic obsession in our lives. Romantic obsession is the narcissistic pursuit of ownership and fulfillment by one party, to the displeasure of another. Romantic obsession is, of course, one sided."

Regan bit her lip. Associations were hard to avoid, especially when it came to talking about romance.

Mr. Holmes clasped his hands behind his back. "Mutual romantic obsession is what is commonly referred to as love. Often, when an individual is romantically obsessed - it's hard for them to recognize that they've crossed a line: romantic pursuit lies on a continuum. At one end are courtship initiatives, with the risks, pleasures, and privileges of being the aspiring lover who takes the lead. At the other end is criminal stalking, which can ruin lives."

Regan looked over at Irene, who was covering her face with her hands. She felt a twinge of empathy, she'd already been publicly called out - but this was a bit of a cruel demonstration.

"The line between courtship and stalking is clear to a 3rd party. Courtship may entail texting, thoughtful emails, flirting and phone calls. While the latter issue involves surveillance, monitoring behaviours motivated by love and anger. Along this spectrum, frequency and degree are the defining key: is it one text, or is it a hundred? Is it a dozen roses, or a roomful? Then there are extreme behaviours, which involve no romance and are, frankly, just scary: trespassing, threats, harassment, coercion. Once the obsessed moves from stalking to aggression - there are no blurred lines. And why - do we chase what we desire so hard? Because rejection goads us into action. If everything was easy, and there on demand - why would we want it? It is the inherent circumstance of not being able to have something - that tells us its worth having. A potential mate rejecting us tells us that they believe they have choices - that we aren't up to their standard. Which triggers in us the desire to compete, to prove we are worth having. Thus, 'obsessive', materialistic, and competitive behaviour presents itself. Now this was observed in action by-"

A knock on the door. It cracked open, and Mr. Moriarty stuck his head through the crack. " _Sorrrrrrrry_ to interrupt." he lulled, making eyes at Regan - who proceeded to look at anything else but him. "I'm going to need to steal Regan for just a minute."

Mr. Holmes cleared his throat. "Mr. Moriarty..." he said darkly, "I am in the middle of a crucial part of my lesson, a lesson which Regan needs to attend and appears to be raptly interested in." he shot his sharp gaze towards Regan.

Jim pouted his lips. "Please? I won't be a minute, _Sherlock_." he said Mr. Holmes' name with a palpable degree of malice and a flick of the tongue.

Mr. Holmes sighed, defeated - gesturing Regan away with a flick of the hand.

* * *

"What is you wanted to talk about?" Regan asked, once they were safely outside the classroom. She itched her head anxiously - ruining her hair in the process.

Jim leaned against the wall suavely. "How're you going?" he grinned.

Regan couldn't help but laugh, looking down. "You caused a scene just to ask me how I was going?"

"Well, I was _terribly_ bored." he admitted.

She took that moment to look at him, really look at him. His hair was more tousled than it usually was, as if he hadn't had quite enough time to prepare himself this morning. His expression was as it always was - bored, yet fundamentally intrigued. Somehow he could scowl himself into the most sour face she'd ever seen - and yet have that mischievous smirk pull the corners of his mouth just so. His face had these perfect angles, as if they'd been perfectly carved from marble. Yet he didn't have the conventional sculpture beauty - because no matter how minimally flawed his skin was, or how immaculately looked after his light smattering of dark facial hair was, his eyes were dark. Not only in hue, but they proved that something about him was just fundamentally dark.

If the eyes were the window to the soul, it would be perfectly reasonable for one to come to the conclusion that he, indeed, did not have one. Or at least, he hid it well.

"It's rude to stare." he lilted. In that fucking voice of his. And yet he continued to stare back at her.

Regan cleared her throat. "I'm, uh, going. I suppose. Can't really complain. Why do you ask?"

He turned his body away from her, back flat against the wall and arms crossed. "As your _teacher,_ Regan." he shot her a sideways glance. "I am merely inquiring to ensure that you're able to continue your schooling without issue."

"Oh."

He pushed himself off the wall. "But as a fellow _extraordinary_ , not boring individual..." he paused, scanning her face. A confused expression washed over his face, disappeared, and came back again.

Regan just stared at him blankly like a stunned doe. Jim reached up, clearly causing himself a degree of emotional pain and conflict, and brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. Their stunned eyes shot looks of shock and surprise back and forth, both aware that if a single word was said it would frighten the other person into bolting away from the situation. He touched her as one might touch a scared animal, tenderly - but with a certain percentage of fear for ones own well-being in case that animal were to turn violent. Regan couldn't stop her head from turning ever so slightly in to the touch.

The door opened behind them. "Regan, we're finishing up now. I have a few important points on your upcoming assignment to cover before you're dismissed for the day."

Regan stepped away from Jim, pulling her eyes away and slipped briskly into the classroom. She saw Mr. Holmes shoot an angry expression Jim's way - she imagined he would've just rolled his eyes.

* * *

Mr. Holmes wrote up some specifics about an essay on Freudian psychology they were to be assigned next week. Considering it was still only the Wednesday of the first week back, Regan wasn't very happy about this at all. He dismissed the class - and was not at all subtle about stopping her and keeping her back. Irene shot her a look as she left the class, not so much angry - as sad. She suspected she was suffering a fall from grace, she felt sort of sorry for her.

"Miss Byron." Mr. Holmes began. "I will open by telling you that I will _not_ be informing any one in faculty. Because I have complete and utter faith in your ability to take control of your own future."

"I really don't understand, Mr. Holmes." she said eloquently.

"Your guile might have worked wonders on Moriarty, Regan, but I assure you it's not going to work here. I want you to know that once you leave the safety of these walls, once you're expected to be a responsible adult - get a job, house, car, pets, et cetera... People usually won't care enough to warn you. As a teacher I have an invested interest in you, Regan. As do all the staff who teach you. We do care, to different degrees. Now, Mr. Moriarty... Is he making you call him Jim?"

She didn't move, or speak, and she could scarely breathe.

"He has a different sort of interest - as I'm sure you're aware. While I'm not privy to the specifics of this observation - what I can offer you is advice. He is _dark_ , Regan. I knew him before he began teaching - easily better than anyone else in staff."

"How do you know him?"

Mr. Holmes looked up at the clock. "I can't discuss the specifics, I'm afraid. But that in itself is a good reason - I can't discuss crime, especially not with a student."

Regan furrowed her brow. Crime. And somehow she should've been more shocked than she really was. Of course it wasn't ideal, but it was simple enough for anybody to glean from his - everything, that he wasn't an... _Ordinary_ person. "Thank you for the advice, Mr. Holmes. I do appreciate your discretion, but I... Really don't believe there's much to worry about, on my part - at least."

"No?"

"I can't say I have any interest in him."

Mr. Holmes began to chuckle, as if she'd told a particularly fantastic joke. He waved his hand, ushering her away as he laughed to himself.

Regan couldn't help but feel insulted, and so she just left the room. She wasn't sure whether it was being called out by another teacher that was making her face flushed and heart race, or if she was still on an emotional high from the touch.


	7. Chapter 7

For the first time she began to feel the thrill in the situation. It was wrong, taboo, forbidden - and plenty of other synonyms too. But there was something about that that made it so much more sweet, was there? The knowledge that there was so much judgement - but in the moments when they were together, it didn't matter. It was fun, she was enjoying herself - so what was the harm, it wasn't hurting anybody. Sure, it'd all escalated very fast from legging it away from him on the footpath - and she'd had input from the vigilant Mr. Holmes that Jim was involved in something criminal, and despite his magnetic mystery he was still unsettling. She wasn't sure, now that she thought about it, why exactly she felt this way - this way being: confused, intrigued and curious. But he appealed to her, flaws, red flags and all.

She thought about everything as she walked home that day, everything, everything, and anything inbetween. The reflection really helped her get that clarity of thought she needed. And now that she'd established that she was still curious about Jim and not quite ready to run screaming to faculty - she felt better. Regan walked inside, up the stairs, and produced that brilliant red book. She flipped eagerly to the dog eared page.

In response to her complaints about him vandalising school property, he'd written: _"Good point, dear - if it was actually school property. It's my personal copy, you didn't think I'd give you one of those grubby school ones did you?"_

She smiled. Admittedly, like an idiot, but she didn't really care. Of course, at this point she couldn't possibly tell if his interest was one of playing with the fact that he was attractive enough to lure a naive schoolgirl to downfall, or maybe just playing with her feelings altogether. But there was that chance that his feelings were ones he couldn't control - and wasn't trying to. Where a normal man would recognise his feelings and do everything in his power to ignore and eliminate them before he was labelled something colourful - Jim might've recognised his feelings and decided that they weren't worthwhile denying. At least, that's what she hoped. She wasn't a fan of the idea of being played, and of course - hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

But that didn't matter right now. She simply scrawled in, _"I hadn't considered it. Are you sure you don't want this back between classes - who knows, it might get ruined."_ She couldn't be riskier, but at least this way if the book was picked up by someone it wouldn't seem weird. At least, not on her half.

* * *

The following day, she walked in to class to a normal arrangement. It seemed as though everyone had already forgotten about her indiscretions, even Kate was waving her over to the middle row to sit with her. Regan smiled. Not because of Kate, although she was for once a welcome presence, but because she knew Jim had his eyes on her. Regan sashayed over to the desk next to Kate and put her things down. She tilted her head down to scratch her hair line, and looked up at Mr. Moriarty from under her lashes. He had his fingers tented on his lips, leaning back with legs crossed, and met her eyes. She risked it, and gave him a little knowing smirk - which he reciprocated.

Kate turned in her seat. "You got a date yet?"

Regan looked up. "Er..."

"For the dance?" Kate rolled her eyes.

"When is the-"

"Sunday."

"Oh."

"I can't believe you don't know, Regan!" Kate shrieked.

Regan could clearly feeling Mr. Moriarty's intent gaze, even as more students poured into class. "Well, I'm hardly up to date with all the news lately. Besides, I'm sure I would've found out about it at assembly tomorrow - they're still running Friday afternoons right?"

"Well yes, but that would've be too late anyway. Surely you have your eye on someone?"

Regan glanced sideways at Mr. Moriarty, who'd quickly looked up from whatever work he'd been busying himself with to listen. She bit her lips. "Not really." He looked down again.

"What about-"

Mr. Moriarty stood up. "Now that we're all here," he looked down at his watch. "- 5 minutes late, perhaps we can begin."

And so began another class in which Regan barely absorbed any material or paid too much attention, because every time her eyes met his she'd get incredibly distracted. He noticed, too, and flashed her a dark knowing smirk - which didn't make her feel any better at all.

Somehow, time escaped her and it was the end of class.

"One last thing for psyche students-"

Oh dear lord. That meant her. What had he-

"Mr. Holmes is sadly unavailable today," he smiled softly. "So I will be taking the next class in his stead. That'll be all, class. Have a nice day."

Mr. Moriarty swaggered over to her desk and scooped up her book suavely. She had to admit, he was very good at his subtleties. His eyes scanned their page, and he grinned. "I'll just hold on to this till the end of psyche, shall I? Wouldn't want it to get ruined."

Regan beamed up at him. "No, that'd be awful."

They chuckled together for a moment, before he sobered down. "Walk to psyche with me?" he offered.

She shrugged. So they both grabbed their things after the rest of the class left and made their way out of the room.

"What happened to Mr. Holmes?" she asked as he locked the classroom door, fumbling with the keys.

He paused, still holding the key in the lock. A sinister smile flashed across his face. "I wonder." he mused, before continuing to mess around with the door.

"You don't need to wonder," she accused, "You know." To Regan, it felt like it was obvious. Jim was the obvious culprit.

He was done with the door. "I happened to hear the little lecture he gave you, yesterday." he admitted.

"You mean you were listening to it deliberately?"

He rolled his eyes. " _Obviiiouuusssllllyyy_." he lulled. "I want you to understand that he wasn't lying."

Regan had that suspicion, and it really was that little bit different to hear it straight from Jim himself. In all honesty, a criminal past gave his personality a less jarring feel - it made sense. "Is the past the past?" she asked.

"You mean am I still..."

"Yes."

"No, I'm not." he said. "Although it does give me a certain roguish charm, no?" he jeered.

Regan rolled her eyes, but couldn't help but smile. The pair began walking off to class. And unfortunately it appeared as though the more time she spent in his company, the more effort it was going to take to get out of all of this unscathed. For a moment, a single moment, she wondered why she even fought it. But she dismissed that quickly. She had this under control, she did, and she had it controlled through fighting the urge to dive head first into the situation.

"So you're really going alone to the dance?" he said.

"Making small talk?" she teased.

He scoffed light-heartedly. "Forgive me for trying to making conversation, Regan." he said, chuckling softly.

"Well..." she joked. They shared a small smile. "To answer your question, yes. I like dances but... I don't like them enough to put a lot of effort into them you know?"

"If it makes you feel better, I never went to any when I was at school." he mused.

"Oh? Why?"

"Well, dear, believe it or not I wasn't very popular..."

She feigned surprised. "No!" she gasped, raising a hand to her mouth - which was in a perfect "o".

"Yes, unfortunately the other kids didn't take too kindly to amateur espionage..." he reflected. Jim looked down at Regan, who had raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't ask."

Regan pouted.

"But, surely you have your eyes on someone, Regan?" he asked innocently.

Regan pretended to be in deep thought, even though she knew he'd see right through. "Well, I've had my eyes on a lot of people. Generally that act constitutes seeing people, no?" she jeered. She was certain he'd have had some sort of comeback, but they'd already arrived at the classroom, so he just shook his head as he entered the room.

She took a seat, not quite at the front - but close enough to Mr. Moriarty that she felt somewhat important. The rest of the class raced in soon after, seats filling up one by one as Mr. Moriarty studied some sheets of paper closely. Irene eventually arrived, nose still swollen and bruised but she didn't have a bandage on at least. She looked at Mr. Moriarty, then looked at Regan, and back at Mr. Moriarty. She grinned a sinister grin and took the seat behind Regan for herself. Regan tried her best to ignore the girl.

Mr. Moriarty coughed. Regan considered sadly that it most definitely wasn't a cold cough. He began the lesson. "Unfortunately Mr. Holmes is in bed sick today, some sort of food poisoning." he flashed a secret glance at Regan, "So I'll be taking the lesson. I've his notes here, and they're telling me you discussed romantic obsession yesterday?"

Nods and articulations of agreement from the class.

"So following on from that topic, we're going to be discussing attraction. Attraction to other people is an incredibly ordinary and common thing: hands up those of you who have _evveeerrrr_ been attracted to another person?"

Hands all over the room went up. Regan hesitantly added her hand to the group. Mr. Moriarty glared at those who were still working out whether to put their hands up or not.

"I know I have." he beamed, shooting his hand up in the air. Regan was forcing herself not to make eye contact. He lowered his hand and turned to write something on the board.

"Regan." Irene's voice whispered from behind her. "Regan!" she said again, this time closer - as she'd clearly leant over her desk.

Regan turned. "What?"

"You do see the way he's looking at you right?" Irene said, wiggling her eyebrows.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't see the pained gazes, licked lips and flushed cheeks? Are you okay honey?" Irene put a moisturised and cigarette stained hand on Regan's forehead. "You must not be feeling well."

Regan swatted the hand away and Irene grinned. "I don't think any of that is happening, Irene. How about you just shut up and learn for once? Maybe you won't be so distracted now Mr. Holmes isn't here."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Do you trust me?"

"No!"

"Regan. Just trust me on this. I'm going to tap the back of your chair with my foot every time I see him look longingly in your direction, alright?"

"Why are you doing this?"

The girl shrugged. "Burying the hatchet love. Unless you want to sock me in the nose again?"

Regan groaned and turned back to the front of the class. Mr. Moriarty finished writing up some notes on attraction up on the board. He turned back to the class.

Kick.

Mr. Moriarty held eye contact with her for a second before addressing a question from the class.

Kick.

He broke his sideways glance.

Kick kick.

Kick.

Kick kick kick.

Kick.

Kick.

Regan squeezed fingers into her temples. She turned back.

"I get the point, Irene."

A really, really hard kick.

Regan turned back to see Mr. Moriarty staring at her from behind steepled fingers. "Is something the matter, Regan?" he asked with an authoritative tone.

She blushed. "No." she managed before burying her face in her book.

* * *

 **Thanks so much to everyone who's been following, favouriting and reviewing! It really does make my day everytime I get a new notification from this fic, and writing it is just a big relaxation sesh from all the homework and bullshit, so your support has really made it happen. :) I don't always find time to reply to reviews, either, but believe me I've read it, taken any advice into consideration and felt all warm and fuzzy inside ok.**


	8. Chapter 8

Finally, psyche was over and so was the day. Regan was anxious to get home to see what she could scrape together for the impending dance. She had considered not going altogether, but it couldn't be all that bad - right? Besides, he was going to be there. Not that that changed much, but she imagined that it might make her feel just a tad bit better.

Mr. Moriarty dismissed the class, walked casually over to her desk and set their book down on it. She was tempted to open it right then and there, but that wasn't the way it worked and she knew it. It was all very exhilarating. She nodded to him knowingly as she packed up her things and left the room - the pair of them half holding eye contact as Regan disappeared out of view.

Outside the classroom, Irene intercepted her in seconds.

"I told you." she whined.

Regan looked around. The hallway was too crowed to discuss this. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh, hello? Just Mr. Moriarty making sex eyes at you all class-"

Regan clasped her hand across Irene's mouth and moved her to the side of the hall, out of the stream of teens eager to get out of the school and do whatever it was they all did. Regan eyed the crowd suspiciously, looking for any indication that any of them heard anything. Irene made a muffled squeak and Regan removed her hand. "You can't say things like that in public, Irene." she whispered harshly.

"Sorry, I didn't realise you were so sensitive." she whispered back.

"I still don't buy you being nice to me. What's in it for you?"

Irene shrugged.

"Irene..."

"Don't question my motivations, just accept it okay dork?"

Regan raised her eyebrows.

Irene let out out a dramatic, exasperated sigh. "Fine! I just... I see the way you two look at each other-"

"I don't look at him like anything..."

"Oh cut the crap Regan and let me finish..." Irene snapped and Regan went quiet. "You two are the way I wish Mr. Holmes and I could be, you know? I just... Despite everything."

Regan smiled slightly in pity. "You really _do_ like Mr. Holmes, don't you?"

"Like him?" Irene scoffed. "Regan, I think I love him. I can't help it. Sure, I get told all the time I could get any guy my age I wanted to - and that's neither here nor there, but I want him. And I can't have him. It kills me. So when I see you and Mr. Moriarty, it just gives me hope - you know? That maybe, we could... Well. Yeah." she confessed quietly. Regan almost thought she caught glimmers of tears in her eyes, but the girl blinked them back quickly.

"Irene, I had no idea... You've just always been so, awful to me?"

Irene chuckled. "Likewise." she rebutted, gingerly touching her nose. "I never really liked you, but that doesn't matter. I just wanted to tell you honestly and truly that Mr. Moriarty has feelings for you - and whether you want to admit it or not you have feelings for him too."

Regan pursed her lips. "I still don't know about that."

"Nonsense... Are you going to the dance?" Irene asked, quickly perking up to change the subject.

"I suppose."

"Got a date?"

"No."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have. Keeping yourself available, eh? Or do you consider yourself already taken?" Irene winked, turning the unbelievable bitchy aura back on in an instant. But somehow Regan hated her just a little bit less. Maybe it was knowing that she had someone who understood what was going on, but at this point didn't appear to want to sabotage anything - not like she did before. She didn't approve of these sorts of two-faced antics, not usually, but Regan sensed a hint of sincerity in Irene. She chose to trust her gut on her - and hope it didn't come back to bite her in the arse later.

Regan rolled her eyes. "See you tomorrow, Irene. I hope Mr. Holmes is feeling well enough to be back tomorrow - or at the dance at the very last." she smiled.

Irene beamed back with this unsettling kindness. But Regan was happy for her, in a way, happy that she was still so willing to hold onto her love for a man who seemed almost repulsed by her presence and not afraid to showcase how uninterested he was to the world. She was either really brave, or really ignorant. In love they sort of became the same, didn't they?

* * *

 _"If you didn't take this home with you every night, what would I have to look forward to every class? And don't worry about Mr. Holmes, dear, he simply wouldn't_ ** _stand_** _for it. ;)"_

Regan's heart did that strange little drop that it always did when she read something uncomfortable. The uncomfortable thing being that he had clearly harmed, directly or indirectly, Mr. Holmes. She assumed just to teach psyche - he didn't have anything other reason she knew of, unless he was incredibly passionate about teaching students as much as he possibly could. He was just slightly psychotic. Or maybe just incredibly amoral. Regan was still figuring him out. She knew for certain, however, that at this moment, to her, he was incredibly haunting and intense. Because she couldn't get the sound of his voice out of her head - and not for lack of trying. She tried listening to every infuriating and painfully catchy song, talking to other people, reading, watching TV. But every song reminded her of him, she saw him in other people, she read things in his voice and even added in his odd little stressed words to her reading, watching TV just made her bored - so that was no use. It was all useless. He was almost as ingrained into her brain as she herself was. It was almost as if she had to fight to get some room in her consciousness to think about things _other_ than Jim Moriarty and that stupid smirk of his.

She thought about Irene's observations, and all that she told her earlier that day. About what was Jim's apparent _obscenely obvious_ attraction, and that she'd been really meek herself. Did he think she was just curious? Did he think she was obsessed with him, or was he perfectly aware of the degree of interest she had in him... That was an odd concept to even think about, interest - in a teacher. Regan smiled, because now was the time for the giddy reaction to how surreal and odd this situation was, she thought spitefully. Considering everything, she decided that she might put in an appropriate level of effort into their interactions. _"What, and just seeing me isn't enough for you, Mr. Moriarty_? _"_ she wrote. They were running out of space in the borders. She read the poem again to herself - as she often did. She read it so much that she was very close to having memorised it. But she still blushed like an idiot everytime she read it and she was starting to hate the way she reacted to him.

She came to the conclusion that if Mr. Moriarty had no idea just how she felt then he was a fucking idiot and didn't deserve any of it anyway. She didn't quite have words for the way she felt, but she knew he gave her butterflies and that was all she needed to know.

* * *

Fridays were always spectacular. Besides being the undisputed best day of the school week, there was also a half hour long school assembly in the morning to relax and possibly get some extra moments of sleep in before the rest of the busy day. She arrived at school and followed the crowd into the gym - heading straight for the back benches. Irene waved her down, despite getting some surprised (albeit disgusted) looks from her usual group, and pointed to the place next to her. Suddenly overcome by a swelling of accomplishment, she pushed past the rest of her peers who were seated in the row and sat with Irene. She didn't care much for popularity, but that was probably because she'd never experienced it up till this moment.

Irene suddenly looked very concerned while staring off into the distance. Regan followed her gaze to the very front row, where a disheveled looking Mr. Holmes was hobbling over on crutches. He had a foot bound in a bandage - not plastered, so probably not broken. Regan felt slightly guilty, was that indirectly her fault? She couldn't be responsible for any bad blood between Mr. Holmes and Jim - but she was goading Jim into wanting to be around her. Was this the result of that? She played with the spectacular fire that was Jim, and evidently she wasn't the one that got burnt. Not yet, anyhow.

It was Jim who really caught her eye though. He was reading, hair falling over his eyes as he focused intently on the book. His lips moved ever so slightly as he absentmindedly mouthed the words he was reading, lashes twitching as his brown eyes languidly scanned the pages. He looked so beautiful, and he wasn't even doing anything really. The P.E teacher, Mr. Watson, who was sitting on his right side - bumped Jim's arm as he turned to talk to the approaching Mr. Holmes. Jim looked abruptly up from his book, and glared at Mr. Watson with an incredible amount of malice and disgust. Even from a distance, Regan could see flames flicker in his eyes. He sneered, then turned back to his book. So he was in a bad mood, she took a note of that. She probably shouldn't try to push her luck in that case.

Principal Lestrade addressed the school, asking for attention and getting none. Eventually, though, the crowd sobered down - probably out of boredom and a new found, surprising anxiety to get out of assembly and on with their Friday. He covered a variety of terribly boring topics: how great it was to see everyone, briefly introducing new students and Mr. Moriarty as a new teacher (who looked like he was going to throttle Lestrade right then and there if he didn't stop talking about him to the school), warning the students that smoking around the back of the library was not on - and the dance on Sunday, attempting to rope students in for various mundane tasks. The same idiots volunteered as every year, it all ran like clockwork - so much so that nobody else really seemed to be paying attention as the volunteers might as well have been jumping out of their skin at the opportunity to get some extra credit.

It was at this point Regan tuned out and stared at the back of Jim's head. She noticed Mr. Holmes glancing over at Jim with a stone-cold look on his face. That look alone dissolved any hope Regan had that perhaps everything that lead her to believe that Jim wasn't involved with Mr. Holmes' injury was a series of coincidences - Jim did it.

She nudged Irene.

"At least Mr. Holmes it here, right?" she whispered.

Irene's expression, which had been as bored and disengaged as Regan's but a moment ago, lit up. "Yeah..." it dropped again, "He's hurt, though. What do you think happened?"

Regan looked away. "No idea."

"I hope he's okay."

"I'm sure." Regan assured her. In reality, he appeared to be in quite a bit of pain. She returned her gaze to Jim, who was now smoothing back his hair.

"Try to be a little less obvious, Regan." Irene teased.

" _Girls!_ " Lestrade snapped.

Almost as if on cue, a hundred heads turned around like owls to face the two blasphemers to dared to speak during assembly. Among those technicolour faces, was Jim's. Despite the hundreds of pairs of eyes and endless information for her brain to take in - somehow she found the right pair. He shook his head, but with this cunning little smile that would've killed Regan given her already emotional state - since the entire school's attention was on her and Irene. She crossed her arms and leaned back - cocking her head up. One might suggest that her small taste of popularity had already gotten to her, but Regan was feeling it. She was enjoying the thrill of the rebellion - even if it was _just_ talking in assembly. Eventually attention shifted back to the front and an exasperated looking Lestrade. Jim's was the last face to turn. His eyes must've lingered just a touch too long on Regan, as Mr. Watson turned back to look at Regan and then back at Jim - but he just shrugged.

* * *

 **Kind of an almost filler, internal conflict sort of chapter here before we get to the juicy stuff. I promise there'll be some fluff up in here very soon. ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

Friday fell through Regan's fingers faster than she would have liked. It was the only day of the week she didn't have English, and that alone made it dreadfully mundane to her. She didn't see much of Jim outside of assembly that day, and it would've hurt her less if she didn't constantly find herself searching for him in every step of footfalls, in every clearing throat and in every swell of laughter. She wondered idly, as she walked home, if he had been avoiding her for some reason or another. The optimistic side of her psyche assured her that if he was indeed avoiding her it was to relieve some of the suspicion that had been surrounding them, but there was always the pit of pessimism that told her that he was probably sick of her and she was just a passing fascination.

But she chose the former as the preferable circumstance. She was determined not to embarrass herself by catching feelings for someone who couldn't care less about her outside of 'the game', so she'd ensure that she'd avoid embarrassment. For once, she found herself excited for a compulsory school dance. Only because it meant she'd only have a single day till she saw him again. Before she saw Jim Moriarty again.

* * *

The hours of the mild Sunday ticked by slowly but surely. She tried desperately to occupy herself, but her thoughts drifted inevitably to him. She only hoped that he was going through the same thing.

As soon as the sun began to set, she threw open her wardrobe and grabbed her dress. Just a simple red gown, but it was made of the most divine material that she loved so much that she just stood there running her fingers through the fabric for a while. She would try tonight, she decided, because tonight it mattered. Regan pulled on the dress, slipped on some low black heels, curled her hair, put on a small amount of make up - and spent the rest of her designated preparation time staring at herself in the mirror, wondering sincerely why exactly she cared. She was sick of her jumping back and forth, at her inability to decide where she was here or there, whether she liked Mr. Moriarty or was completely creeped out and repulsed by him, whether she was doing this for her or everyone else. But that was an integral element of the human condition, wasn't it, indecision.

She tucked a piece of her hair behind an ear, it was romantic - wasn't it. Not all that much romance wise was frowned upon by a lot of people now-a-days, was it? One of the most incredible steps of the century was tolerance for all colours and shades of love. But not when circumstances were truly illegal. Was it so different to, say, the great romances of Shakespeare? On her side, at least, and in his work there was a great amount of emotion involved despite stigmas and rules. And Shakespeare's work eventually found incredible fame, and nobody for one second dared to say that the love the playwright captured was wrong and a mistake. So by that token, her sudden entanglement might also, in time, reach a point where it was just seen for what it really was - instead of a shroud of forbiddenness and outrage being thrown over it. In time, it would be romantic. That is - if he didn't turn out to be a powerful criminal mastermind, but the odds of that were slim at best in Regan's opinion.

She tucked the small red book into her clutch, not so much expecting to need it as wanting to have it with her. There was a certain degree of comfort in being in the possession of something that was owned by someone special to you, even more so if it's important to them. It's almost as if, in ownership, a small piece of that person breaks away.

Regan took one last look at herself, before turning her room's light off and languidly strolling down the stairs.

"You look so beautiful, honey." Regan's mother beamed up at her as she turned the corner of the staircase. "It really is a shame you don't have a date, I'm sure just seeing you would make this night something to remember."

Regan smiled to herself and blushed, not from being flattered - but having to focus on what her mother was saying dropped the amount of control she had on her anticipation for seeing Jim, and her heart began to race. "Thanks, Mum."

"Did you want me to drive you?" she asked.

Regan looked hard at her mother. At the dark circles under her eyes, the tired but affectionate smile, the shaking hands of a woman who was always working. "I've already got a ride, thanks Mum. You get some sleep, and I'll be back before Dad gets home - okay?"

Her mother nodded and kissed her cheek, wishing her a good time as Regan stepped out the door. Regan trotted down the steps and through the gate quickly, till she was out of sight of the house due to the dark. She turned, and began walking to school. True - it wasn't how she envisaged the evening beginning, but her mother looked like she was about to collapse, and she awarded herself some mental brownie points for being considerate (if a little stubborn).

A few cars were still on their way to wherever they were going - and each set of headlights seemed to blind her temporarily. But she was already making good time. She ignored the protest of her feet in her heels and kept going.

A car slowed down next to her. Regan bit her lip... It couldn't be...

"Now where is it you're off too so late?"

It was.

"For _once_ I'm glad to see you, Mr. Moriarty." she teased, stretching out her painful toes.

"You wound me." he lilted, holding his hand over his heart and pouting. He chuckled. "Would you like a lift, or do you want to continue wearing down your shoes?"

Regan pretended to consider her options for a moment. "Hm, alright." she smirked, dodging around the front of the car and getting into the passenger side.

Jim began to drive. "You look nice, Regan." he said quietly, "Red suits you."

She blushed hard enough she was sure she was monochromatic at this point. "Thank you, you don't look too bad yourself." she laughed. In truth, he looked no different apart from the fact he was impossibly even more groomed and neat. She was fairly certain he'd even worn that suit jacket to school before. She wrung her hands. "Dressing up nice for a date?" she asked. She tried to keep her tone light-hearted, but the words forced themselves out in a way that caused her voice to break slightly.

Jim shook his head. "Even if I had someone, I wouldn't take her."

"Why's that?"

"Well," he shrugged. "High School English teacher is hardly an exciting career is it?"

"I don't know," Regan mused. "You've got to be pretty brave to want to put up with a bunch of teenagers five days a week, sometimes more."

Jim laughed. "I suppose. It has it's perks though."

Regan looked over at him. "Like what?" she asked.

Jim looked away from the road for a split-second to meet her eye. "You should see how many pencils are lost in my class, my pencilcase is so full." he grinned.

Regan shook her head. "You're ridiculous."

"It _is_ a weakness with me." he lulled. He stopped the car. "Well then, time to mingle with all the ordinary people hm?"

Regan rolled her eyes jokingly and got out of the car. She looked over at Jim, who suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

"Are you alright?"

"Hm? Yes. Yes, I'm alright. I'll just be a moment, Regan - you go on in." he fretted.

She pursed her lips, and was going to protest - but thought better of it. She instead made a b-line for the gym.

* * *

The regular interior of white-washed walls and polished wooden floor was dimmer that night, illuminated only by lights of all hues - and brightened with streamers and decorations of white, turquoise and golden brown. It was incredible how much the space had changed. It not only felt smaller, but it didn't really feel like a school at all - she could barely see the laminated lines on the floor beneath all the swirling bodies. Evidently nobody had wasted any time in getting down to business. She edged through the doorway and stood awkwardly at the side - searching the crowd for someone she knew and fumbling with her clutch nervously.

Irene caught her eye from somewhere in the middle of the fray, excused herself, and approached the uncomfortable Regan. "Regan! You look lovely darling." she looked around. "Where's lover boy?" she winked.

"Give it a rest just for tonight, alright?" she grinned and Irene elbowed her. "But speaking of lover boys - I see Mr. Holmes over there looking quite lonely. I'm sure he'd appreciate some company, no?"

Irene bit her lip and stared at the psychology teacher. "Mm. The _company_ I'd give him, look at that suit."

The giggled together for a moment. "Well Irene, if you're not going to go over to him - I will."

Irene's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't _dare_! You're staying right here."

"I think my sophisticated skills of persuasion might be able to get you dance..." she wondered out loud.

Irene looked down and smiled widely. "Okay, go go." she said hurriedly, pushing Regan in that direction.

Regan obliged happily. She might even remember to mention Irene while she was interrogating the man. She pushed through the throngs of laughing, talking and dancing people till she reached Mr. Holmes, who was leaning very sauvely on the snacks table talking to Mr. Watson. Regan stopped short of the pair, and assimilated herself into a small circle of people - listening to carefully. She glanced over, to the pair, who had now moved closer and were exchanging light touches.

Regan turned on her heel to join the two. "Hello." she said bluntly.

Mr. Holmes glared down at Regan with the fury of a hellfire. "What do _you_ want."

She clutched her hands behind her back and swung to and fro - much like a young child attempting to be cute to get what it wanted. "I was wondering if you'd like to tell me some specific details about a specific circumstance that involves me."

"What are you talking-"

"Should I go?" Mr. Watson said quietly.

"No, don't go-" Mr. Holmes urged.

"Perhaps another time, then." Regan smirked. "But till then, maybe you'd like to go dance with a student? For your image only, of course."

"You mean Irene."

Mr. Watson frowned.

"Correct."

"No." the tall man said plainly.

"I could let slip that you are involved with our Mr. Watson here."

"That's- no, what-" Mr. Watson spluttered.

"Quiet, Watson. You could accuse us of such behaviour, on no grounds may I add, but you are forgetting that a few words from me could also land you in trouble."

"Except in your circumstance I'm aware both of you will be fired, as I'm very well aware of the school's policies, as opposed to - well, fill in the blank Mr. Holmes."

The man glared at her darkly. "You've been picking up some bad habits, Regan Byron, and we both know the influence. I've said it once and I'll say it again - stop."

"Stop _whaaaaat_?" a voice piped up from behind Regan. She turned. Jim had returned from whatever it was he was doing and it was looking far more relaxed.

Mr. Holmes clenched his jaw. "Chasing fairytales. She'll only get hurt." his eyes flicked back and forth between them.

Mr. Moriarty huffed. "Every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain, Sherlock."

She heard Irene call out for her. She looked back, raised a hand in recognition, and turned to Mr. Holmes. "You're needed." she smirked.

Mr. Holmes stormed off wordlessly in a delighted and blushing Irene's direction. She watched with an overwhelming sense of triumph as Mr. Holmes extended his hand and pulled Irene in to dance as the previously blaring music turned to something softer. Mr. Watson was nowhere to be found, probably legging it as soon as things got intense.

"A shame he's gay." Jim mused, Regan suddenly remembering his presence.

Regan hummed in agreement. "He's definitely screwing the gym teacher."

"Obviously." he said. Regan was turning away when she felt a cold hand on her own. She had barely enough time to react before it yanked her back in the direction she was turning from and she collided with a steady body. She must've questioned it at some point, because Jim said, "Another obvious thing. Since the unspoken rules against dancing with students has been broken, we are dancing - no?"

The overwhelming closeness of their bodies almost must've almost made her faint, because she began to lose sensation in her legs and it took all of the little willpower she had left to support herself. Every nerve on her body that touched his was on fire, a series of shivers crept down her spine, and she was rendered completely and utterly speechless. His hand fit snugly in her own, and with the other he lifted her chin up gently. She stared with round eyes back at him, still useless and rigid. Jim gently took her other hand and placed it on his shoulder, and placed his own hand on the small of her back.

"We can dance, or we can just stand here." he murmured to her.

At a loss of anything else to say, she blurted out, "Were you smoking?"

He screwed up his face at her. "Smoking hot." he jeered.

Regan had to laugh into his shoulder to stop it from being too loud. The smell of cigarette mixed with his cologne and his natural scent to create a smell that was so indisputably _Jim_ that she would give anything to smell it forever. "I can't say I disagree, _Mr. Moriarty._ " she lulled, beaming up at him as they finally got around to dancing and not just standing there basking in the moment.

He moved like water, with almost painfully graceful and perfected movements. It more than compensated for her two left feet - not that it mattered. She was still trying to wrap her head around the fact that this body against hers right now belonged to the same man that sent her intense, fleeting glances from across the room behind his desk, that communicated with her in secret through a page in a poetry book. His steadily increasing heartbeat, she hoped, was an indicator that this thrill wasn't one sided. That they were both engulfed in the moment. The perfect, perfect moment.


End file.
